


Inked

by DoreyG



Category: Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Communication Failure, Community: fan_flashworks, Corridor Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Hand Jobs, M/M, Military Backstory, Pining, Post-Episode: s02e24-26 Starcrossed, Rough Oral Sex, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 12:55:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7618897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because he would swear, if he didn't most definitely know better, that Bruce is checking him out. In the same way that some of his old military friends did when he was in the showers, in the same way that <i>Shayera</i> did before all that shit went down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inked

He has ink, of course. He got it years ago, on his first tour of duty when he was a dumb kid and just wanted to fit in with his friends. He doesn't think about it much, to be honest. They're just markings on his arms, physical memories of a time that he generally quite enjoyed. Nothing big, nothing garish, nothing to really distract him from everyday life.

Until...

It's been a routine mission, as far as routine missions _go_ when you're part of a superhero organization that regularly finds themselves warped to other planets. There was a monster terrorizing a moon fairly near to earth, and they stopped it with the minimum of effort. The only real sacrifice, as they pinned it down and handed it over to the authorities of the nearest planet, was the top half of his uniform.

"GL!" Wally cries, looking over his arms with open admiration, "nice tats, bro!"

...The top half of his uniform, hiding those long ago tattoos.

"So the secret is out of the bag," he sighs wryly, rolls his eyes as Wally - permanently a stranger to personal space - zooms over and starts to touch, " _please_ never use the word 'tats' again, it makes you sound like an idiot frat boy."

"Maybe I am an idiot frat boy," Wally retorts, makes a face as Diana slowly starts to trail over, "I mean, uh. How long have you been hiding these from me? When did you get them? Oooh, are there _stories_ behind them?"

"Flash..."

"You're being nosy," Diana scolds, gently swats the kid over the back of the head as she leans in to examine the tattoos with an expression of interest, "I'm sure there's no great mystery behind them, it's probably just the sort of thing that John doesn't think about all that much."

"Right," he nods, chuckles at the _openly_ disappointed expression on Wally's face, "I got them decades ago, back on my first tour of duty. There's no particular story, no juicy secrets to dig your teeth into. I was just out with my friends, saw a nice design and decided to go for it. Luckily, considering that I was in my late teens at the time, I haven't ended up regretting the decision _too_ much."

"I am glad," Diana laughs, and gives him a genuine smile, "it would be sad, if you regretted something so nice."

"Yeah," Wally chips in, beaming again with his disappointment neatly forgotten behind him. The kid doesn't really hold grudges, has never actually tried, "they suit you, GL! You should show them off more often. You know, for the ladies."

"For the ladies," he snorts, as Diana turns to give Wally a sceptical glance, "yeah, sure, _that'd_ go well. Hey, Bruce, what are the League guidelines for switching to a sleeveless costume just to impress random bystanders who may or may not be paying much attention to-?"

His teasing question trails off, sharply enough that Diana's eyes narrow at it. Across the room the last member of their little party - what with Shayera still god knows where, and Clark and J'onn dealing with matters on Earth - is still. Blank lenses seemingly fixed upon his tattoos, expression more complicated than he's ever had the confusion of seeing it.

"Bruce?" Diana ventures, also having noticed. Her face thoughtful, vaguely amused in a way that probably doesn't bode well.

"...League guidelines strictly prohibit changing your costume just to flirt with bystanders," Bruce says eventually, jolted to life by Diana's question, and turns towards the cockpit in a movement sharp enough to cut, " _especially_ when such an action would put both you and those bystanders in danger. You should really think better of such foolishness."

Odd, he thinks a touch dazedly as Wally starts to grumble in the background, for a moment there he almost thought that the big bad Batman was _blushing_.

 

\--

 

After his tattoos are revealed, Bruce gets weird. While Diana immediately goes back to her normal self and even Wally returns to full obliviousness after a few teasing comments, the big bad Bat remains oddly distant. Quiet, seemingly watching him behind those big white lenses that don't show a damn thing.

And he wouldn't be worried, because Bruce is naturally just a bit weird and if there's anything several years working on various superhero teams teaches you it's to embrace all the oddness, but it keeps _happening_.

He'll be in the gym, pressing weights with his usual amount of efficiency, and will look up to find Bruce standing there. He'll be in the medical centre, bruised and battered after a mission goes wrong, and Bruce will insist upon checking over every single part of him _apart from_ his arms. He'll be on an actual mission, flying high and doing his damned job, and he'll glance down to find Bruce staring at his arms like they're some sort of Holy Grail.

It's confusing, is what it is.

Confusing, and slightly worrying, and wholly unexpected, and... Just a bit odd. Because he would swear, if he didn't most definitely know better, that Bruce is checking him out. In the same way that some of his old military friends did when he was in the showers, in the same way that _Shayera_ did before all that shit went down.

...But he does know better, and considering what his life is _usually_ like he's probably just making a mountain out of the smallest molehill imaginable. He ignores the glances, as best he can. Gets on with his job, and _also_ ignores the odd realization that he wouldn't exactly mind if Bruce - scary Bruce, weird Bruce, Bruce with the body of a god and surprising kindness lurking behind those flat white lenses - _was_ checking him out.

 

\--

 

The whole denial thing goes well, he’s been in the navy after all, _right_ to the point where Wally starts noticing that something’s up.

"GL, on your nine!" He hisses one day, when they're sitting in the canteen and eating lunch. A long moment of impatient waiting, as he stares out of the window in confusion, and then a rather harried: "I mean, on my nine! That way is nine, isn't it?"

"Flash, I thought we agreed that you wouldn't try to _use_ military terminology," he huffs, but slowly looks anyway. Is somewhat unsurprised when his eyes encounter Bruce, standing just inside the door and staring at his back with unparalleled intensity. His eye meets lens for a long moment... And then the man is turning away, marching back out of the room at top speed.

"Are you in trouble?" Wally is asking, as he slowly brings himself back to reality. A slightly worried note to his voice, confusion wrinkled around his mouth, "have you done something that I don't know about?"

"What on earth would I have done?" He huffs, turns all the way back to the table. His food, half finished, having somewhat lost its lustre, "and why on earth would I be in trouble, for that matter?"

"I don't know!" Wally says brightly, gives him the firmest look that he's ever received from the guy. Usually all rainbows and clouds, suddenly a master interrogator out of the middle of nowhere, "but Bats has been looking at you a hell of a lot lately, and unless he has a crush..."

And that, to be entirely and utterly frank, is _it_.

"I've lost my appetite," he mutters, pushes away from the table to Wally's entirely obvious confusion, "I'll see you around, Flash. Try not to get in _too_ much trouble before I'm pulled up in front of Batman's special disciplinary panel."

 

\--

 

“Bruce!”

For a second, when he catches up with the man in the corridor, Bruce looks rather like he wants to throw himself out of the nearest window. Luckily he soon masters the urge, even bothers to flip his lenses up as he turns to face him with a neutral expression, “hello, Lantern. What can I help you with today?”

He wonders, caught in the crosshair of Bruce's gaze, why the _fuck_ he thought this was a good idea. The urge is there, for a long moment, to just turn on his heel and run for his life... But no, he's an adult. He crosses his arms over his chest instead, raises an eyebrow and attempts to look as calm as possible, "nothing much. Really, I was just wondering if _I_ could help _you_ with anything?"

Another odd expression, one that he would almost call _afraid_ if he didn't know any better, crosses Bruce's face. But it's soon gone again, replaced by carefully polite confusion, "excuse me?"

"I saw you watching me," he elaborates, watches with interest as Bruce's eyes widen the slightest bit, "in the canteen, I mean. Thought you might've needed something from me, your resident Green Lantern and tattooed freak."

"You're not-" Bruce starts hotly, freezes for a second. Carries on, still so quickly that probably only Wally could've found a way to get in, "I mean: no, I'm fine, it can wait."

"Really?" He asks deliberately, and settles for watching Bruce's reactions instead. Because the guy may well be a wall most of the time, but he can be an _expressive_ wall when he wants to be, "because it seems like you've been waiting a hell of a lot lately, judging by the amount you've been watching me."

"...Not really," Bruce says, lamely to anybody who has spent _years_ fighting besides him, "those were all, ah, separate concerns. Unimportant ones, in the scheme of things. Will you be needing anything else, or can I get back to my business?"

"Now," he starts a touch hotly, fully willing to admit that he's a bit _tired_ of all the constant watching and waiting over the past few months, "wait a minute-"

"Goodbye, Lantern," Bruce nods, neutrally. Allows his unlensed eyes to drop to his arms for a fraction of a second, and then turns on his heel in his very brusquest manner, "contact me if anything actually important comes up."

But, unfortunately for Bruce, that brief flicker of the eyes may just have given him an idea.

He's not really an exhibitionist, or at least hasn't been one since that first tour of duty where he got his tattoos, but desperate times call for desperate measures. He dissolves his suit down to his waist, watches with some sense of pleasure as Bruce stops _dead_ on that heel and stares with wide eyes.

"You've been looking at me," he starts deliberately, pretty sure that the man is gonna be unable to move anytime soon, "ever since I revealed _these_ , back on that planet. Coincidence, or...?"

"Hn," Bruce offers, mouth obviously gone dry. And he can finally say that he's reduced the big bad Bat to speechlessness, he's pretty sure that Clark will actually go as green as his ring with jealousy "...Yes, completely coincidence. Now, if there's nothing important-"

"Don't you like them?" He asks, and can't resist crossing his arms a little tighter. Letting the muscles _bulge_ , showing his ink – the patchwork flowering across his skin - to its full advantage, "come on, man, you come from _Gotham_. I would've thought that you would've seen a thousand worse things while driving to work."

"Alfred drives me to work," Bruce murmurs automatically, eyes snapping helplessly down yet again. A long moment, his hesitation palpable, and then he slowly looks back up again with a reluctant glimmer lurking on his face, "and, uh, that's... It's still not important."

"My ass, it isn't," he snorts. And, barely aware of what he's doing, takes a step closer - crowds right up into Bruce's face, so they're barely a breath apart, "the amount that you've been staring at me, picturing _these_ , has started to draw attention. So I need to know how much this is going to be a problem. Do you hate them that much, Bruce? Or is it a case of-?"

He was deep enough in denial that he'd convinced himself not to expect the kiss, but when it happens it still isn't exactly a _shock_. Bruce's lips are warm, softer than he would've thought considering how many times the man's taken a punch to the face. When he opens his mouth on a gasp, wet and needy enough to go _straight_ down to his cock, his tongue is even more agile than he would've dreamed.

"...I shouldn't have done that," Bruce says in the next moment, drawing back sharply with a troubled look clear upon his face, "my apologies, it won't happen again. Now, if you'll excuse me-"

So he _was_ right after all.

This time, he's the one who initiates the kiss. He pushes Bruce back against the wall, and _goes_ for it with teeth and tongue. A moment of hesitation, that mouth ever so warm against his, and then suddenly the man surges against him - kisses him back with such passion that it's a revelation, a 180 flip of his worldview.

To think that Batman, the stoic dark knight of legend, had been keeping _this_ back from him all this time. It appears, to his surprise, that he has a type. He gets rid of the thought as quickly as he can, unwilling to linger on the way that Shayera kissed him with Bruce’s tongue currently in his mouth, and shoves his hand down between them - scratches his fingers down armour and reinforced leather until...

"Here," Bruce mumbles in a slightly wondering voice, whether at the way he kisses or the craziness of the whole situation, and reaches his own hand down to help. A slight twist of the wrist, a button pressed, and suddenly the man is _bare_ in his hands. More vulnerable than he ever thought him capable of.

But, again, no time for musing. Bruce's cock is hot against his hand, and already close to hard. He gives an appreciative stroke, feeling the length of it, and it goes to full hardness in his grasp. Bruce panting in his ear, dark and low and _deadly_.

Well, he's hardly saint enough to resist an invitation like _that_. He leans back a little, so that Bruce can see the tattoos coiling down his arms, and starts up an insistent rhythm. There's no room for gentleness here, this is probably as close to romance as they're ever going to get. By the way that Bruce stares at his arms, makes desperate grunting noises low in his throat like he's dying, he doesn't really mind all that much.

He'd like to say that he takes hours over Bruce, reducing the man to a helplessly whimpering mess, but unfortunately he doesn't have the patience for that. He twists his wrist, and Bruce's eyes flutter briefly shut. He runs his thumb over the head of Bruce's cock, and they spring open again. He licks his lip, and makes sure to flex his muscles just so...

It takes five more strokes, after that.

Five more strokes, and then Bruce bucks against him with a muffled _snarl_ and comes messily all over his hand. Spots of white dripping down to the floor, probably staining Bruce's suit along the way.

"Good," he purrs as Bruce slumps back against the wall, visibly catches his breath for possibly the first time in... Ever, "now, on your knees."

A moment, where they stare at each other and he half expects the man to actually turn on his heel and bolt away as fast as the Flash, and then Bruce gives a small movement of his shoulders. Peels his cowl off over his head, revealing ruffled hair and the glimmer of sweat on his temple, and kneels down without a word of protest.

His costume is a lot less complicated, practically _simple_ with his participation. Bruce gets him out with the minimum of fuss, stares at him for a long second with eyes blown wide and mouth still bright red from their making out.

And then, before he can do more than hesitantly open his mouth, leans in. A brief exploratory lick to the head, slow and deliberate enough to almost make his knees buckle, and then sweetly wet pressure closing all around him. Swallowing him down, a surge of heat that has him pressing his hands against the wall for balance.

Bruce is about as gentle with him as he was with Bruce, which is _better_ than good. The man teases him for only a second, and then gets down to business with the singular obsession that seems to have accounted for most of his decisions over the years. He blows him hard and fast, seemingly uncaring for anything as petty as backache or knee strain or even a gag reflex.

 _Christ_.

He never once thought that Bruce would excel at something like this, the man is hardly the most talkative of people, but fucking hell if he wasn't wrong. The man is quick, but thorough. He bobs his head like a pro, like he's just entered the cocksucking olympics and is _determined_ to win the gold. He starts off fast as it is, but then somehow goes even _faster_ \- a hard motion that almost makes him _dizzy_.

Bruce grunts around him, insistent even as he sways, and he takes the hint. Removes one hand from where it was braced against the wall, and places it on Bruce's bare head. Threads his fingers into the thick black hair, tugs on the already disordered waves and-

 _Motherfuck_.

Bruce, as if he's been waiting for a sign, deepthroats him with only the slightest flutter of his eyelids. His other hand falls from the wall, ends up on the man's shoulder with his muscles flexing and his tattoos clearly showing... And Bruce does it again, and he's _lost_ in a blaze of pleasure that actually makes his toes curl.

When he comes back to himself, seconds or minutes or possibly even decades later, he's in a pile on the floor with Bruce sat across from him. The man is looking at him with an expression of borderline awe, one that fades to slight wariness as he slowly pulls himself up and reaches to thumb away the line of come coming out of that bruised red mouth.

"...So," he starts cheerfully, after a long few seconds of silence. Bruce staring at him warily, an odd sensation expanding in his own chest that he never thought he'd ever feel again, "you like my ink, then?"

Bruce grunts, but the look in his eyes is answer enough.


End file.
